


Wicked Dreams

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Biting, Celebrations, Community: lotr_sesa, Consensual Brothercest - Freeform, Desire, Dreams, Drinking, Hand Jobs, Hangover, Headaches & Migraines, Incest, Insomnia, Intoxication, Kissing, M/M, Midwinter, Musicians, Orgasm Denial, Pain, Regret, Secrets, Shame, Sibling Incest, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was in that spiked wine that had the power to stir to life such shameful thoughts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/gifts).



> Many thanks to [](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/profile)[**caras_galadhon**](http://caras-galadhon.livejournal.com/) for the invaluable help.
> 
> [](http://moit.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://moit.livejournal.com/) **moit** asked for heavy kink, H/C or angst. This ended up being angst.

Boromir pressed the back of his fist to his mouth, valiantly trying to hold back the cough that the first sip of drink had provoked.

"What now? Was the innkeeper's own brew too strong for you?" grinned Faramir over the rim of his tankard, raising his voice to be heard over the din in the tavern. "And here I thought true all the tales you tell of drinking bouts."

"It is not the strength," replied Boromir, wincing at the bitter aftertaste in his mouth, "but the taste. This must have been made of chaff rather than grain."

"Let me taste it."

"Oh no," laughed Boromir, holding his hand over the goblet even as Faramir rose to make a grab for it. "I said the taste was disagreeable, not that I would reject it."

 

As was the custom during the Midwinter celebrations, there was both much light and music, and the tavern was filled to bursting. Boromir watched the minstrel's hands dance nimbly across strings and stock of the lute, heard the brittle thrill as the strings shivered. The drums were almost too loud for the small room, the player's hands glancing off the skins like skipping stones off water, fast and secure. His feet were tapping the floor, the hobnails of his boots clicking off the nail-heads in the boards. Faramir appeared to be keeping the beat as well, his hands softly mimicking those of the drummer. The ring he wore, identical to the one on Boromir's left hand, clicked against the edge of the armrest.

The air was stuffy and warm both from the large fires and from the body heat of the revellers, and Faramir's cheeks were blushed. They sat side by side, closer than they needed to.

"I have not felt this much joy in a long time," said Faramir, leaning very close to be heard over the noise without shouting. Leaned so close, in fact, that Boromir could feel his breath on his cheek. It made him uneasy, for he feared that his body might betray the thoughts that crowded in his mind. Even though he was elated, cheered both by ale and music, and most of all by the presence of his loved brother, there seemed to be a shadow over it all.

"That is well," he replied, taking care not to lean in too close even though every fiber of his being desired it. "To see you content gladdens my heart as well." _And yet it rends my heart to have you so close without being able to touch you as I wish to._

 

The midnight air was still and shockingly quiet after the din of the festivities, and as they made their way back to the Citadel, exchanging greetings and pleasantries with the other revellers returning to their homes, Faramir leaned heavily on his brother. He was somewhat unsteady on his feet, and even though Boromir could feel the wine burning in his veins, he found it tempered by his worry. Faramir seemed unaware of his distress, and his breath was so warm on Boromir's neck he thought he might be scalded.

"Sleep for you, I think," he said, voice rough and stilted.

Faramir murmured some form of assent, still clinging to Boromir's side. He was half walking, half shambling up the stairs and through the long hallway, and as he leaned on the door to his rooms, he lifted his head and offered Boromir a wide and sleepy smile.

"Remind me to do this again," he said, his young voice lowered by drink. "I have enjoyed it muchly."

"You will repent in the morning, brother dear," said Boromir. "When you taste naught but bile in your mouth and water makes you retch, you will wish you hadn't swung the tankard quite so many times."

"I can hold my drink," protested Faramir.

"That remains to be seen," said Boromir, patiently ushering his brother into the room. "When your head catches hold of what your throat has been guzzling, it is your gut that will pay the price. I am willing to wager my shield that you will be sick as a dog in the morning."

"I had no more to drink than you did, Boromir."

"Perhaps not, but I am older than you are."

Faramir tilted his head, catching Boromir's sleeve to regain his balance which wobbled momentarily. "Must you always have the last word?" he asked, his attempted frown tempered by a wide grin. As he spoke, he leaned in somewhat, wrapping his arm around Boromir's shoulders.

They were so close they might have kissed. Boromir could feel his heartbeat in his temples, tension robbing him of speech entirely for a moment. Were he but to lean in that final missing fraction, he might press a kiss to Faramir's mouth. He might thread his fingers into Faramir's hair and pull him close, feel the heat of his body.

What was in that spiked wine that had the power to stir to life such shameful thoughts? And yet he knew that they were no new thoughts, for they were a shameful secret that he had nursed for some time now. It seemed they burned ever brighter in his mind, to the point where they might override his common sense.

"Yes, I must," he said, forcibly breaking the spell and attempting to smile. "Good night, Faramir."

 

His head already ached, a sullen echo of pain beating away behind his eyes. It was shame as much as wine that caused it, and as he settled to lie on his bed, he grasped thick handfuls of the covers. It made no difference to the pain, and after a few moments, his fingers began to hurt him.

He drifted in and out of sleep, unable to find proper rest. His thoughts curled and uncoiled, twisting into each other. Thoughts of what was and what might be. Though... though what might have been was nothing but a reverie, so it was allowed him. How many moments had he not lost to idle daydreaming of matters forbidden?

It had hinged on so little, and yet that little step had presented a risk far too great for him to take. Had he been foolish enough to act on the impulse, he would surely have lost all he held dear, and the thought of a life where he was estranged from his brother was too painful a possibility to consider.

 

He had so many to choose from. The young women who laughed and hid their faces behind their hands when they saw him pass, the healers who curtsied and fussed when he came to the Houses of Healing to have his cuts cleaned, the young soldiers who carried pint after pint to his table in the tavern, looking down at him with uncloaked desire. Yet, all he could think of was Faramir. His own brother.

The thoughts came unbidden, and he was unable to stop them. However much he tried to imagine others, his mind's eye would always distort their faces until they carried Faramir's features.

As they did even know. He did not even need to make an effort to conjure up an image of Faramir as he had been scant moments ago, rougishly smiling and all too tempting. As he considered the image, adding what details he could remember, it seemed the image deepened, became more real. It did not startle him, and instead he felt pleased. Yes, it was all in his mind alone, but what harm was there in basking in mere images?

In this deeper image, the run of events had changed. "What are you waiting for, brother?" asked Faramir, rather than rebuking him for wishing to have the last word. "Surely you cannot be at a loss for what to do?"

The first kiss was not as careful as he would have wished for it to be, and instead it was hungry and greedy. Faramir reciprocated immediately, his lips parting under Boromir's. Even though it lacked in finesse, it was sweet and heated, and he felt a strange sense of disappointment when they at length were forced to break the kiss.

"I am certain that you can name, offhand, at least a dozen things which you have longed to do to me." Faramir's voice was teasing, but not nearly as devastating as his touches. No area of skin was left unmapped. "I give you free leave to do what you wish."

What he wished. What a cruel taunt that promise was, for there were so many things he wanted to do.

"Are you sure that is not too bold an offer, little brother?" He let his fingers twine into Faramir's hair, pulling until Faramir was forced to cant his head back, exposing a pale stretch of neck. Leaning in close, he set his teeth to the tender skin, alternately biting and soothing, delighting in the small desperate sounds that issued from Faramir. "I might wish something you are not willing to provide."

"You may be surprised by what I am willing to provide, Boromir," said Faramir, his voice strained from effort.

 

Not bothering to retort, Boromir forsook courtesy and simply grasped the front of Faramir's breeches. He pulled impatiently at the lacings, feeling more than hearing one of the laces snap, and finally drew the breeches down off Faramir's narrow hips. "A sight for sore eyes," he breathed, curling his fingers around the already hardened shaft. Faramir reacted immediately, bucking into the hold with a bit-back hiss. Continuing the movement, Boromir felt the flesh stiffen further yet, grow more solid under his fingers. His own cock was hard, uncomfortably so, but he could wait to give in to those urges. First he had to sup his fill of Faramir's body, steal whatever touches he had been denied before as though scared that this privilege might be revoked at any moment.

For all he knew, that might be the case.

He laved a long path up Faramir's neck, taking in the subtle meld of tastes. At the same time, he clenched his fingers to lend more pressure to the slick stroke. Faramir's low moan caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up and it shivered in his nerves like intoxication. It was enough for him in this moment, enough to simply pleasure Faramir and watch him come undone, and to do this without fear of reprimand.

He clutched at Faramir like a man drowning, desperate to taste as much skin as he could, desperate to indulge in each touch he had but dreamed of.

"Let me see you come undone," he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse. He was teetering on the edge himself, but would not fall before Faramir did.

Faramir, his eyes half-closed and his cheeks flushed, managed only a small sound that might have been both protest and assent.

As Boromir tilted his head somewhat to be able to take in the glorious sight that was his brother he became aware of a strange light streaming in through the tall windows, as though the sun was rising in the middle of darkest night, harsh light pouring into the rooms and misting his vision. As he blinked and shook his head to clear the unwelcome blur, the rest of his surroundings shifted, turning all to darkness. He reeled, uncertain of his bearings, then felt himself falling.

Falling through air, into a pit that surely could not exist--

And did not exist. He started awake, a shout caught painfully in his throat. The room was dark, its air warm and stuffy. He could see nothing in the compact blackness, and his heart beat a frenzied tapto in his ears. All a dream. Naught but a dream! It disappointed him far more keenly than it unsettled him.

He was certain he was clenching his hands so tightly his palms bled. The ale had left his head, but he felt none the better, and he could taste sour gall in his mouth. The dream-images would give him no peace, and as he twisted amid the snarled bedding, he found he was still aroused. An anguished groan escaped him. The tighter he shut his eyes, the clearer the images were. This was some folly brought by dark forces, of that he was certain. Had it been a mere dream, it would have shifted into mist as he sought to remember it.

Faramir had seemed so real in the dream, down to the very timbre of his voice, and it had not seemed wrong to him for a single moment. Not until he had been jolted out of his reverie, feeling fevered and dazed. His own flesh betrayed him, throbbing blood-filled and defiant of his anguish. Oh, there was a way to ease that pain, but he could not take it. Instead, he lay staring up into the darkness until dawn came.

Such folly. Such breathless, reckless folly on his part. Why could he not shake these thoughts? Why did they persist, filling him with shame and regret and endless longing? Not even his dreams were safe.

_Let this escape your long sight, Faramir. Let it die in silence within my mind before I burden yours with my ruinous wishes._


End file.
